Song As Old As Rhyme
by nitefang
Summary: It was a tale as old as time, a story of a love that went beyond appearances, beyond pride and prejudices, to bind together two very unlikely and unprepared people.
1. Part I

**Merry Christmas!  
(Yes, it still counts because as of right now, here in Florida, it is still December 25****th****.)**

**This is for my awesome friend, Alejandra—hope you had a magical Christmas and hope you have many more.**

* * *

**Song As Old As Rhyme**

* * *

Bright hazel eyes stared up at the intermittent jerks of the clock arms. Every second ticked by in tandem with his heartbeat. There were two statues that stood on either side of the grand staircase like two guards, but aside from them, this clock had been the sole survivor of the curse—the only one in the castle to have escaped any sort of…_beastly_ transformation. He supposed the only reason it was spared was because of its simplicity. It had always hung in stark contrast with the lavish interior of the castle. Made of unpolished wood, steel, glass, and iron cogs, it had always been out of place.

He'd always thought it ugly.

Ironic then that the ugliest piece in the castle was now the most beautiful.

It had been his mother's. She'd always had a love and appreciation for the simplicity in things—an attribute instilled within her because of her rural upbringing. His sister had inherited that same admiration. He, on the other hand, was very much his father's son. He'd hated that clock—that damned, ugly clock which was the physical manifestation of the mistake his father had made by marrying outside the aristocracy.

He and his father loved his mother, true, but his parents' marriage was a black mark on the family, the brass piece in the hoard of gold. In an attempt to mask the family's shame, they consolidated their wealth, investing heavily and branching out businesses to rake in the kind of profit that forced everyone else to turn a blind eye to family's disgraces. His father had taken him under his wing at a very young age, training him in the ways of finances and politics. He'd grown clever and resourceful, but he also grew prideful and cold.

When his father died, he took over the family, doting on his mother and sister but turning a cruel, unwavering glare on everyone who'd dare to sneer down at him. His mother had urged humility and his sister forgiveness, but he would have none of it.

His regrets had now long since outnumbered the blocks of stone above, below, and around him.

The clock chimed noon, and he growled at the soft chimes ringing through the pliant, delicate wood. Hunching his shoulders, he turned and stalked away, letting the fourth, fifth, sixth, and following chimes fade behind him. He'd ordered the curtains be kept shut at all times, so each torch on the wall brackets flared to life as he passed. He was nothing but a shadow in his own home, and he preferred it that way.

Smooth, flat nails had thickened and rounded into long, curved black claws that clicked against the marble floors as he treaded across the hallways and corridors. He envied and pitied his servants. Envy in that they were simply transferred into candelabras, clocks, feather dusters, and wardrobes; pity in that they were surrounded by beasts—winged demons frozen in the middle of crawling up columns, horrifying reptiles mounted on pedestals guarding the entrance to every wing, mutilated bears, lions, and tigers immobilized as they roared at intruders on every outside corner of the castle, and one very alive monster silently lurking through the halls.

He'd heard the candelabra and the clock speaking once—Michel and Samuel, the men who'd once been his adviser and chief of staff, respectively. They'd spoken about the shock of seeing such a bulky animal lithely weaving up and down stairs, around corners, and through doors. It should've bade him feel proud. It only sickened him

He was adapting. He'd gotten used to this form, the physical sign that he'd given up on anyone ever lifting the curse.

He stopped and stared at the statue on the left of the top of the grand staircase. Face frozen in horror as she stared at him was his mother. He'd known that her expression had been fear _for_ him at the time, but as he looked at her white, stone face, he could swear that her face now only held fear _of_ him. He turned around to see his sister, the bright and mischievous little girl who should've turned fourteen today, and to see sadness. That expression, at least, was the same back then as it was now: disappointment at what had caused this curse and grief at what he'd become now.

"I-I'm sorry," he choked out, but even the sound of his voice made his stomach roil.

A human's voice was smooth, even. An animal's voice was rough, course—half-intelligible growls instead of legitimate words. He could feel the vibrations drumming against his throat, and though his own voice had been deep before, it was nowhere near as it was now.

He clenched his fists, claws digging into the thick animal hide of his palms. He could feel the growl thundering through his chest. The suits of armor lined against the wall stiffened on their pedestals, and the flames in the nearby torches flickered fearfully. He dropped his hands, scraping his talons against the marble and feeling the spine-twitching drag as he gouged ten lines into the stone. His jaw clenched against the anger roaring through his lungs. He could feel the hair on his back bristle as his hackles rose. His muscles bunched as he surged away from the froze, cursed statues of his family and tore into the west wing, carelessly scoring his claws through the antique carpets and rugs, rage burning and overheating his skin under all the dark, almost jet-black fur.

He barreled through the doors of his room, ripping the twenty-foot doors off their hinges and sending them into piles of splinters on the floor. His room had already been in shambles, but he still managed to find tables and sofas to upturn, glass to shatter, paintings to ravage, and a rarely-used voice to abuse as his roars had the castle itself trembling.

The dark red haze of fury slowly ebbed as he leaned one arm against the frame of the balcony doors, his chest heaving and his fur matted with blood he couldn't remember spilling. Anger had numbed him. He spent over half of his time not even feeling any pain.

Slowly, he turned his back on the cool, clear night and faced the soft pink glow of the enchanted rose. Small orbs of light fluttered out from between the withering petals and faded as they drifted down to the table. Stepping forward, he rested his hand on the cold, fragile cover, his heightened senses letting him feel the infinitesimal magical vibration that hummed through the glass. His other hand reached for the ornate, silver hand mirror. The metal was warm as he lifted it up—always high enough to look through, but never at an angle to see his own reflection.

His voice rumbled, low and hoarse in the darkness. "Show me the girl."

The mirror crackled with energy, humming violently before glowing a soft purple.

It was a stupid request, really.

The first time he'd commanded it to reveal _her_—_whomever_ she was—the girl in the glass had been spinning around with a brilliant smile and golden hair weaved into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. She was fair and delicate, a face worthy of a princess. Bright verdant eyes sparkled in the golden lights of the ballroom around her. He remembered her from long ago—a ball his mother organized—Duchess…Something-or-Other. She was beautiful, and he'd once entertained thoughts of marrying her. So when he'd requested to see the face of the girl who would break the curse, he'd been floored to see her. Honestly, he'd thought that the mirror would show him some vague, blurred image, so seeing the duchess in vivid detail was more hope than he could have ever imagined for himself.

So it was only natural that he was taken aback when he made the same request the following evening, expecting to see gold and green, only to be met with ebony and mocha. Bright red lips and mischievous dark eyes flashed across the surface of the mirror in a flurry of vibrant fabrics that rippled out from her hips as the girl spun 'round and 'round. Smooth, flawless olive skin glowed in the candlelight as she vigorously danced—her movements sharp, smooth, and sensual. She glided along the floor, as if she was dancing on hair. She bent back at the waist so her long, thick curls cascaded toward the floor and extended her arms, fluidly sweeping them around herself. She was exotic and mysterious and…_dark_.

The next night brought a fresh wave of confusion when he requested to see the girl once more, and electric blue eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. Long, straight blonde hair streamed behind her as she lifted her skirts and ran—_barefoot_—across the a field of clover, chased by a gaggle of children. Tan skin gleamed with a healthy sheen of sweat. She threw her head back when a little girl actually leaped up and tackled her around the waist, extending her long, elegant neck as she laughed and hoisted the little girl into her arms.

It was that same night that he finally realized what the mirror was doing: teasing him. There was no glimmer of light at the end of a tunnel for him, no hope—only the same delusions of grandeur that led to his downfall.

* * *

When he saw her, he truly _looked _at her. He'd been exposed to women of the court who would only deign to make eye contact when it contributed to their flirtatious devices. He would know, having been the target of many a female mission. And yet this one shied away in initial shock when he stepped into the small circle of light but rallied herself in a way that many men would never have dared in his presence. Her diminutive shoulders were squared, chin high, eyes flashing with more authority than fear.

He thought she would demand her father's release and their safe passage out of his castle because she was a _lady_.

He was wrong.

She offered an exchange, an unfair transaction: her freedom for her father's, her life for his. He was no stranger to sacrifice, but he couldn't help but balk at her daring. A young woman, who seemed to be barely out of girlhood, offering herself up in her older, middle-aged father's stead. The logic had been torn out of the equation and scattered in the wind. He glared at her, waiting for her doubts to settle in, but she was unwavering. And so he agreed. He was raised a man to savor his blessings, an opportunist. He was also raised a gentleman, a man of honor, and a man who could notice and appreciate someone worth his time.

But this one, this _Rachel_—this brash, audacious woman—was one he noticed very much, albeit not entirely sure if it was in a good or bad way. She wasn't of nobility, that much was obvious. Her dress was simple, her cloak rough but warm. She was nothing like the women he'd interacted with before, and it was…strange. Like stepping out onto his balcony after locking himself inside for weeks, he wasn't sure if he was refreshed or uncomfortable. She was…a lot to take in.

So he tossed her lanky, bespectacled father into the stagecoach and ordered it back to the village. When he returned, he found her where he'd left her. She was weeping at the window of the tower, murmuring softly about how she didn't even get to say goodbye. He watched the tears streaking down her face and the defeated hunch of her shoulders as she, in turn, watched the stagecoach skitter off across the bridge. However, she was still the woman who earned his respect and caution in less than a minute. Her utter refusal to even wipe away her tears or collapse onto her knees in hysterics had him torn between guilt and pride. And he didn't like it.

He softly growled for her to follow him, and he led her down to one of the guest quarters. Monster or not, he would not let her sleep in a cold, dark tower. Though he may look like a beast, he wasn't quite at that behavioral level yet. She tested that, though, when she refused his request to join him for dinner. He wasn't entirely sure to whom his anger should be directed: Michel and Samuel for forcing the idea on him, _her_ for being so rude as to turn him down, or himself for being stupid enough to think his _prisoner_ would enjoy having dinner with her _captor_. He shot one last furious glare at her door before stalking off, his anger stirring just enough to muddle his thoughts but not enough to rage through his castle again.

So be it then.

If she wasn't going to eat with him, she wasn't going to eat all.

Michel, Samuel, and Mercédes, his sassy head maid and teapot, looked downright horrified when he specifically ordered them not to let her out of the room or take anything into it either, but damn them. He was still the head of this house. It was to him that _her_ dues were paid.

His orders would be obeyed.

* * *

He smelled her before anything else, before she even stepped within five feet of his room. She smelled like heather and crisp, cool mornings; hers was a calming scent. And yet he was everything _but_ calm.

He had been very clear and succinct. On top of _staying in her room_, she was not supposed to be _anywhere near_ the west wing. She could traipse in and out of her balcony, play hide-and-seek under the bed, or even dance with the wardrobe, for all he cared. The one thing he'd emphasized on his very brief tour was that the west wing was forbidden. For many reasons, not just for his privacy.

He watched her, hidden in the shadows, as she tiptoed into his room, studying the broken furniture, the ravaged walls, his shredded portrait. She stopped on that one for a long while, lifting the limp cloth into place to piece his face back together. She knew. He knew she recognized him. The way she reached up and touched the painted hazel eyes told him as much. The low growl in his chest rumbled softly enough for her ears to miss it, but it was there. It was always there. That ever-present fury that ebbed and flowed began to crest as she continued around his room and finally peaked when she spotted the rose.

He stalked her in the shadows, muscles taut and ready to spring, and when she lifted the glass cover and set it on the floor, he quietly stepped behind her. He would never harm her, never place a threatening hold on her, but when her small, delicate fingers reached out to touch the rose as it hovered in the air, he very nearly seized her 'round her waist and dragged her out of the room. Instead he moved so he was nearly right up against her back and simply exhaled.

If he'd been more lucid, less consumed with rage, he would've given her credit for not jumping in shock. She turned around slowly, eyes wide and breathing erratic. Fear spiked her scent, making it sharp in his nose. As soon as they made eye contact, something in him snapped. Big, brown eyes made his bones creak and shift, made his entire being shudder. She swallowed, and he seized the sound to anchor him back into reality.

"Get out," he breathed. When she made no move to leave, he repeated himself loudly, feeling his control beginning to break. "_Get out."_

She stumbled back, glancing one more time at the enchanted rose.

"GET OUT!" he roared, the two words thundering throughout the castle and leaving him bone-dry of any energy.

She nearly tripped and fell at every step as she stumbled out of his room while he just slumped onto all fours. She squeezed through the crack, not wanting to expend more energy than necessary by opening the door wider, and he bowed his head, muzzle pressed against the cold marble.

It was a mistake. Not throwing her out with father was a mistake, not physically locking the door of the room was a mistake, hoping for…_anything_ was a mistake. He let her go because she wasn't the one. No one was the one. This was his punishment, his curse. There would be no salvation from this.

Especially not from some hard-headed, illogical woman who would probably have accidentally fallen to her death because she leaned too far off the balcony one day anyway.

But then again, as he heard the wolves howling in the distance and the frantic whinny of her draft horse, he realized he was just as hard-headed. Illogical, daring, brash—he fit her mold just the same, every pounding step of his chase digging his hole ever deeper. He should've rid himself of this woman as soon as she stuck her chin up and said, "Take me instead." He should've let her walk out of his castle and never thought of her again. But there he was, tearing through the forest, following her scent and the mangy stench of the wolves that nipped at her heels.

Because there were three thing that propelled him out of his room and toward her, he later said to Michel when the candelabra followed him back to his room after she treated his wounds and sent him to rest.

The first was the way she looked at him when he screamed at her. She looked absolutely terrified, but she wasn't _horrified_. The two words were similar enough, but horror connoted disgust. She didn't look at him with disgust. She looked at him the way a woman would stare at a furious man who was about to throw a table at the wall, not the way a woman would stare at a monster with blood and viscera dripping from between his teeth. It didn't seem like much, but to him, it was a lot.

The second was when he replaced the glass cover on the rose and saw that the petals had contracted in on itself ever-so-slightly, as if clinging to each other to keep from losing another…as if the rose itself was trying to give him more time. It had never done that. It had bloomed and begun to wilt, but never that.

The third…was because he couldn't let her die. Not like that, not with those wolves out there in the cold. He didn't care if she ran off or tried to beat him with a stick afterward. He just couldn't let her die.

And if she'd just left him there to die or even dragged him back to the castle and left to her village, he wouldn't have minded. But she stayed. Even then as Michel and Samuel began to examine the rose like serious scholars or scientists, he looked in the direction of her room in the castle. She stayed and tended to his wounds and thanked him for saving her life and excused herself to sleep "for a long, long time"...in _her_ room.

* * *

The creaking and shifting of his bones had left him feeling different. His breaths were deeper and easier, his sleep longer, his appetite better, his fuse longer. The furni—_servants_ stopped cringing as he approached and began bowing as best they could. It was truly a funny sight to see a mop trying to bow.

It was only funny for a few seconds until he saw Rachel glaring at him from down the hall.

That was also something that had changed. He had taken her as prisoner, and she saw that his repayment for emotional damage was saving her life. "After all," she'd argued, "it was your fault and your short temper that spurred me out into that dangerous forest to begin with. It was your _duty_ to save me. By saving me from the wolves, you've evened the score. Therefore my saving _your_ life by not leaving you out in the cold makes you indebted to me." And _because_ of that convoluted mindset, she felt justified in trying to bring him back into civility. She'd glare at him if he was rude to the servants, chided him for scratching up the floors with his claws, relentlessly reminded him that in spite of whatever it was that changed him into a beast, he was still obligated to function by human standards which necessitated a habitable, _clean_ bedroom.

That last one had himself and most of the servants frozen on the spot.

She _really_ knew. And not only that, she had singlehandedly taken over his own home.

He'd initially tried to fight her. He genuinely put forth his best effort and his most intimidating growl. To no avail. As it turned out, Rachel's small stature belied her voice. Their screaming matches had the servants hiding in every nook and cranny, cupboard and cabinet, under rugs, and behind drapes. And she would never, _ever_ back down from him. Not even when her hair was being blown back from her face, he was screaming so hard. Not when he threatened throwing her back out to the wolves, literally and figuratively. Not even when he threatened cutting her hair in her sleep, he was desperate enough to descend into adolescence. She would not back down.

And so he threw his head back, roared at the ceiling so loudly that the glass shook, and gave her the reigns to his castle. Her furious, defiant expression immediately brightened. She beamed at him and stalked away, listing off the "basic things to clean" in the west wing to the brooms, dustpans, and dusters that trailed after her.

"She'll be the death of you," Samuel said.

"If you don't kill each other first," Michel finished.

* * *

It was a strange progression, their relationship.

Their open hostility towards each other burned down the barriers that normal people would've had to work their way through. One day they were shrieking at each other about his tone or about her ludicrous standards, and then the next, they were sitting outside in the garden, talking about birds, of all things. He knew every single species that flew by, and he'd confided in her that before his curse, he used to be able to feed them straight from the hand. Now, they were simply too afraid of him to approach. So she sent for a bag of birdseed and promptly dumped all of its contents onto his head.

His problem of being too unapproachable to birds was resolved, and it was on that night that he began to lose sleep over this woman.

She would chatter incessantly and at inhuman speeds about the most arbitrary things like books and fairytales and recipes and plays and desserts and everything else under the sun. When she finally descended into talking about stoves, he thought she'd finally exhausted her supply of things to babble about, but once again, he was wrong. She moved on to ottomans.

At first, he thought she only did it because she liked the sound of own her voice. That's another thing that had eventually come to light. Rachel had a confidence and superiority that made even _his_ eyebrows rise—if the fur above his eyes could be classified as eyebrows. At times she would sound vain and condescending, but the more he was able to catch up with her fast-paced speech patterns, the more he was able to pick up on the fact that she was actually painfully insecure.

She was talented, that much was certain. If their screams had the servants melting into the very walls itself, her singing had them floating out of their places and dancing in flurries of feathers, brass, and glass. One night, he was curled up on the wide sofa in his den when he heard her drifting around the hallways, singing a slow, sweet love song, and he curled up and fell asleep, her voice echoing in his dreams.

But her talent, brilliance, and certainty in both had enough force to drive people away. She'd dropped the occasional flippant comment about how the villagers she and her father lived near didn't seem to know what to do with her. As their conversations began to extend well into the night, her brightness dimmed with the fireplace as she mumbled about how it was hard to have friends when she felt it was her very personality that repelled them.

That's why she talked so much.

Because she never really had much opportunity before. Her arrogance was simply the overflow of personal reassurances that she was good enough. Apparently, she wasn't the prettiest in the village or the most charming or charismatic. He watched her perfect posture slowly hunch into insecurity, legs pulled up to her chest, chin resting on her knees. She wasn't like that green-eyed duchess in the ballroom, the exotic, red-lipped dancer, or the laughing blonde in the field—and she was all the more _Rachel_ because of that. And there they were again: her ludicrous standards. She thought her smarts and her singing ability were compensation for being ugly. So when he interrupted her and stated that she was nothing but beautiful, she blinked at him owlishly, bid him goodnight, and then went up to her room.

The next day, she greeted him in a subdued tone, her eyes never quite meeting his. Until he insulted the perfectly delicious oatmeal and had her railing about his ungratefulness. And then he sat back, pleased that the fire in her eyes was back and wondering how the world had gone so wrong that a girl would react so negatively after being called beautiful, after being told the truth.

It was on that same day that she rushed into his den, skirted around the furniture, and threw her arms around his waist. He nearly had a heart attack. If simply moving the piano and a bookcase of sheet music into the adjacent den of her bedroom elicited this type of reaction, he should've done it a long time ago. However, he was still a beast. He wasn't exactly sure how to reciprocate hugs in his current form, so he settled for awkwardly patting her back as gently as he could and then stepping out from her embrace.

"Thank you," she said, grinning through the sheen of tears in her eyes.

He nodded. "You're welcome."

And when she walked back out, he began to pace the room because he hadn't quite realized it until then. Hadn't realized how casually she'd been touching him, how she never hesitated to grab his paw or try to smooth some recalcitrant tuft of fur on his head, how she'd never showed any sort of trepidation at the slightest thought of touching him.

The same soft, sweet melody she'd sung the night before began to play on the piano, and his breathing hitched. His muscles tightened around his bones, and his chest seemed to cave in like a hole. Not even a heartbeat later, the hole felt like it'd been flooded with warmth, and he leaned against the mantle for support.

"Damn," he muttered aloud, trying to calm his breathing. "Damn it."

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the cold stone because damn it to hell if he'd fallen in love.

She'd wormed her way into his castle, into a ridiculous agreement, into the hearts of his servants, into his good graces, into his life, into his very _being_. She brought the sun back into the corridors, the rooms, the hallways, the ballroom. The shades of gray his castle had fallen into were suddenly rejuvenated into sparkling golds, gleaming silvers, vibrant reds, deep blues, vivid greens, and cool violets. She made sound a good thing again, something to look forward to in the mornings. She brought back music. Michel and Samuel were singing and dancing like the fools they were. Mercédes wouldn't talk to him without having some sort of melody against her words. The servants would occasionally break out into familiar songs.

The dull blur of his life sharpened. He became so acutely aware of her presence that no matter where she went in the castle, the stables, or the garden, he began to feel a magnetic pull toward her. He could find her wherever she was, and he used that to his advantage quite often. He'd surprise her, scaring her into screaming at pitches he never thought were possible. And she would hit him so hard, the servants would gasp in fear. But then he would laugh, low and gravelly, and they would marvel up at him. And then Rachel would hit him again.

* * *

He took her up to the crow's nest one day after lunch. He gently advised her to please, for goodness sake, _dress warmly_ since it was still snowing outside, and she acquiesced. Then they walked to the south wing, and he guided her up the winding staircase that led up to the tallest, most narrow tower of the castle.

"Okay, stop here," he said once they reached the trapdoor. He pulled out a small yellow blindfold and handed it to her.

"Really? What if I trip on the stairs and fall to my death? You should've just left me with the wolves—at least that would've been a more honorable death: fighting 'til the very end compared to simply _falling_."

He rolled his eyes. "I am going to lift you up so you won't have to walk anymore, but if you'd prefer, we _could_ go back out to the wolves."

"Oh. All right." She took the blindfold and tied it behind her head. Then she reached out and grasped his paw as if she innately knew where it was. "Okay, lead on, good sir."

He took a second to swallow at the feel of her hand in his and then pushed the trapdoor open. He stepped forward first and then gently lifted her out into the gazebo his grandmother had insisted be built as the highest tower.

"All right, I feel open air. You're not going to throw me off the castle now, are you?"

"Would you like me to? You can check to see if you can fly."

She glared at him even through the blindfold. "_No_, thank you. May I take this off now?"

He led her right up to the railing, released her hand, and then said, "Go ahead."

She pulled the blindfold down, and couldn't close her mouth for a good two minutes. A roof was supported by three columns, and the stone railings kept them from plunging to their deaths. Everything else was wide open. It was a panoramic view of the valley to the north, the mountains to the west, the river to the east, and meadows in the south.

"I know it's probably not the adventure you prattled on about the other day. I would take you out there myself, but I'm…a magnet for trouble, so we'll leave that to a later date," he said. "I _do_ know how much you liked windows, though, so I thought you'd appreciate this."

She continued to gawp at the view.

"You can come here whenever you like, but you might want to avoid it when it's raining. Unless you _do_ want to fall off, then by all means. The railing is good for jumps." Apparently it was his turn to babble. He cleared his throat. "It's great for, uh, stargazing as well. Just pull this lever here and the roof slides out so you can see right above you."

She just reached out and slid her arm into the crook of his elbow and leaned against him. "Will you tell me about what it's like? Out there, I mean."

"It's big," he answered. "It's... Frankly, it's terrifying. Makes you feel like no matter how tall you could get or how big you could try to be, you'll always be small."

"Is it exciting?"

"Most terrifying things are exciting," he reminded her. "But it's definitely worth it. You have to have the wide spectrum of life to really live, you know? You have to take your hits to make the desserts that much sweeter, have to have lows to have peaks."

"Will you come with me?" she asked. "When I go?"

He took his time answering, trying to find the right answer. But when he thought about it, he could only come up with one thing. "Of course." He would never be able to deny her. Not with things like this.

After a few minutes of silence as she stared out at the landscape, she asked, "Where have you gone before?"

"Germany," he said immediately. "I traveled a lot with my parents and my sister, ever since I was a child. Some places I can't remember that well anymore, but Germany is still very vivid in my mind. That's where I was harangued into taking Kurt on my staff. He nearly grabbed me by the noose, dragged me into his shop, and forced me into his outfits that actually were very nice."

Rachel laughed and any cold he felt from the weather evaporated.

"He asked me if I needed a valet, and so I offered him the position."

"Then why is he in my bedroom?"

He shot her a bland look. "I'm not in any shape to model the latest fashions, you know."

He thought she'd somber at the mention of his…form, but instead she giggled. And he rolled his eyes and shook his head. When was he ever going to learn that he was always going to be wrong with this woman?

"What was Germany like?" she asked. "What about Blaine and Rory? I know Blaine is Captain of the Guard because he's the most elaborate suit of armor in the main hall, and Rory is the head cook because he's the stove. They said you met them in the British Isles. What was it like there? A-A-And—"

"Can you relax? One at a time," he said, laughing and shaking his elbow a little so she shook along with it.

"Sorry," she said, grinning up at him. "Well, go on then! Before we turn into popsicles up here."

He stepped closer to her, trying to lend her as much warmth as he could. "Well, Germany—oh, Germany was a blur."

She nodded knowingly. "Because of Kurt."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Well, not just because of him but because of the lager."

"Do I really want to hear about this?"

"You don't want to hear about the way he nearly got me killed?" he teased. "Or about how Blaine proved himself to a worthy captain by framing me for murder? Or about how Rory nearly poisoned me because he went through an experimental phase involving a mish-mash of the most popular dishes of the Isles? Let's not forget Tyna trying to run me over with five draft horses."

Her expression darkened. "Tell me now."

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

And enjoy it he did. Even after the sun set and they went down to dinner, he continued to regale her with tales of his experiences in Germany, the British Isles, Morocco, Greece, and even China. She always seemed on the brink of scolding him before she finally gave up and just _laughed_. The more he went on, detailing the various escapades he'd had with various members of his staff, he fell more and more in love with her laughter. Loud, boisterous, and infectious, it warmed him through and through. They ended the day back in his den in front of the roaring fireplace. He was sprawled out on the rug, and she was laying on the sofa, her hand dangling off the edge as she smoothed back his fur. It was in this position that she finally fell asleep, fingers still settled on his head.

It was then that his doubts crept up on him again.

There he was falling in love with a girl not because of a curse but because of _her_, and she could very well only see him as a friend, a companion, a talking dog. She was different from those other girls. She wasn't airy and superficial, she wasn't sparkles and ruffles, she wasn't always sunlight and laughter. She was _real_. She was a river in it all its fury and splendor; she was a mountain with all its strength and majesty.

And he? He was never going to be good enough.

She was rough and middle-class; he was a prince. The softest material she'd ever owned was rougher than his finest silks. She was everything he never knew he wanted but could never have. She was his prisoner, and he was cursed. She had options; he had no choice.

No matter how hard the rose tried to keep itself together, no matter how much pity its magic could have for him, it was still withering. It was down to its last seven petals. Time was slipping through his fingers, and his fate and the fates of his servants, his _friends_, rested on his shoulders. The burden, however, paled in comparison to whatever feelings for Rachel he kept from bubbling to the surface. He couldn't…

He couldn't expect her to love him when she was a prisoner. A friend, but still a prisoner. He couldn't expect her to stay with him of her own accord because she had a life outside of the castle, a father she loved and doted on. He couldn't expect her to want anything to do with him if he did give her the chance to go because she'd said it before: she does the best she can to make the most of unhappy circumstances.

Even if she cared about everyone in this castle, this was still, for all intents and purposes, unhappy circumstances.

He may not have had much experience with love, but he knew enough about it that this… This was not the basis for it. This was not healthy, not right, not _good_.

And with that, he stood, gently lifted her up and cradled her in his arms, carried her to her bed, glared meaningfully at the wardrobe, and left the room.

* * *

**End of Part One**

**Because I haven't finished the other half of this yet.  
=D**


	2. Part II

**Well, this was later than anticipated… I apologize.**

* * *

**Song As Old As Rhyme  
Part II**

* * *

It had been three days since he brought her to his grandmother's watchtower and a few more hours would mark three nights since he carried her up to bed. He'd sequestered himself in the west wing after that, subtly warning the servants not to come anywhere close lest they be privy to a relapse of his darker period. He honestly wasn't sure what he was doing, what he was aiming for.

On one hand was the breaking of his curse and restoration of his and his servants' humanity. This five-year nightmare would finally end, and he would have Rachel. What would slip through his fingers was her respect for him. If he told her what his curse entailed, she would never forgive him. She would believe that he had used her friendship as a means to end his curse. While that was true once, it no longer stood. He was in love with her, through and through. There was no using her, no deceiving her, no "payment for breaking into his castle."

On the other hand was the purpose of the curse itself. He was a smart man—_monster_—the sorceress wanted him to learn about love, and he did. He knew that love meant letting Rachel choose between her options and risking her exit from his life. He would have to tell her the truth. He'd have to stomach whatever reaction she may have. If he didn't do that, the lesson the enchantress wanted him to learn would've flown over his head.

What was sitting in front of him, however, was the reality that he was a monster, a _beast._ He could love all the women in the world, but no one in their right mind would fall in love with him. Rachel was anomalous enough to decide coming within ten feet of him was a fine idea, but he couldn't ask for much more. If he was human, yes, all would be well. He'd been a handsome bastard, that much was certain, but now he was nothing short of a nightmare. Even Rachel wasn't enough of a lunatic to take things that far.

But according to Michel, Samuel, Mercédes, Kurt, Blaine the suit of armor, Rory the stove, Tyna the pitchfork, Guillaume the music stand, Joseph the mop, and even Marley the teacup, he had to try.

So he padded to her room and was about to knock on the door when from the other side, Kurt suddenly heaved the biggest sigh a wooden wardrobe could muster.

"He's still a man, Rachel. When men don't understand what they're dealing with, they retreat because they'd rather observe before throwing their lots in," Kurt said. "Or at least, that's what _he_ does."

He lowered his hand and leaned closer to the door, waiting for whatever Rachel's response was.

"What happened to him, Kurt?" she asked sadly.

"Oh, he may or may not have been accidentally pushed into a bath filled with women's bath salts because no amount of plain soap would have washed away the smell of dog."

He scowled and involuntarily bared his teeth at the door. He _knew_ it'd been Kurt who tipped his bed and rolled him into that bath.

"Uh…that's not what I meant, but that certainly explains some things," Rachel said slowly. "I was talking about…him in general. What happened? What was he like before all this?"

"He was a jerk. He had very few soft spots and those were only saved for his mother, his sister, and me."

Outside the door, the beast rolled his eyes at his valet.

"He used women the way many use flowers: cultivate them only for decoration, not for genuine appreciation of their beauty and worth," Kurt continued flatly. "He'd woo them and disposed of them when he was bored."

If a beast could blanche, he would've. He nearly carved out his own eyes when he heard Rachel's choked surprise.

"He…_disposed_ of them?!"

"I didn't mean he killed them! He just…" Kurt sobered. "…stopped courting them, talking to them, _seeing_ them. He was a good businessman, a good son, a good brother, and a good employer. However, in the terms of a real man, Rachel, the prince was not good man. He would cheat and swindle, lie and manipulate anyone to his advantage. You could blame it on the combination of personality and circumstances, but even before he was transformed into a beast, he was a monster."

The master of the house had never been so flattered in his life.

"And then he changed. After he was cursed, he had no choice to seclude himself from the world, and the change that resulted from that was the one that greeted you when you came to the castle. He tried his best to retain his humanity, but his animalistic tendencies always won out. It comes back to the combination of personality and circumstances. His dark past only contributed to pushing him closer to really embracing his…_beastliness_."

"Is that why he was cursed?" Rachel asked. "Because of what he was like?"

"Look, I know I talk a lot, but even I know my limits at this point," Kurt sighed again. "I've already said enough. If you want to know more about it, _he's_ the one you should be asking."

"But it's your curse too, isn't it?"

"No, honestly, it isn't. Everything hinges on _him_. We're just the collateral damage. He's bearing the weight of this curse, so it would also be his responsibility to tell you about it."

"But he won't. That's why I'm asking you."

"Not my story."

"Kurt, _please_."

_"Es ist nicht meine Geschichte zu erzählen."_

"Kurt!"

_"Ce n'est pas mon histoire à raconteur."_

"W-What if I can help?"

There was a solid minute of silence before: "You're offering help to the wrong perso—wardro—_entity,_" Kurt answered exasperatedly. "If you're so insistent on learning about this curse, I suggest you go to the…_being_ on whom the curse centers."

"I _would _if he wasn't trying to distance himself from me. Sometimes I get the feeling that he's trying to hold me close with one hand and then push me away with the other. And it's coming to a point where he hasn't even looked at me in the past three days, and I don't know _why_."

Kurt was going to sit on him.

"You can't be serious. I'm going to sit on that idiot."

Told you.

"No! No, don't do that. I'm sure he's just…busy with something. I don't know."

"Rachel, can I ask you something?"

"No, you can't give me another makeover. I looked like a painted whore."

"Don't make me sit on you too. I'm a genuine teak wardrobe," Kurt threatened. "But that's not what I was talking about. I want to know what you think of him."

"What I…_think of him_? I think he's a good man, honestly. He may have been some sort of monster before I got here, but I like to think I had some hand in humanizing him a little again. I've seen him interacting with all of you when no one thinks he's watching. He's…incredibly sweet. He's tentative with helping because he's afraid he'll break some of you, and I can see that with his actions. But he still _tries._"

Kurt chuckled. "Yes," he agreed fondly. "Before—when he was still human, I mean—he didn't talk much. He had his resentment and bitterness, but he also had the kind of compassion and kindness that seemed entirely uncharacteristic. He's always been a man of quiet action. He expresses himself through different means, but he certainly knows _how_ to express himself. That's what you can always rely on. He's not all talk like some people; he _shows_. And to me, that counts for so much."

He sighed and ran his hands over his face. If they ever got out of this, Kurt was getting a raise.

"To answer your question, Kurt," Rachel said. "I like him—I _care_ about him. A lot, actually."

"But…?" Kurt urged her.

She took such a long time to answer that he nearly walked away to spare himself. "But nothing. He's… He's my friend."

And so he walked away.

* * *

His first thought was that there was no longer any point in keeping her there. His time was almost out; the remaining petals were dwindling. She _could_ grow to love him, but the kind of love he could only hope for was the love of a friend. Nothing more. She'd said as much. No matter how otherworldly her talent may be or how fast she could talk, she was not a freak—not like him.

His next thought was to promise that if all he could have was her friendship, then he would do his best to do the right thing by her. So he would.

He went ahead with Samuel and Michel's confounded plan. He ordered _them_ to go invite her instead of doing it himself, of course, but he retreated to his rooms not to wallow in his self-hatred but to…_get ready_. He cringed at the very thought, but for the first time in an extremely long time, he gave Kurt and his minions free reign with his appearance. They hacked off hair, drowned him in a bath, filed down his claws, raked his fur into submission, and shoved him into a tailored suit. Kurt nearly wept by the time the wardrobe tackled him out of his own room.

He spent the entire walk from the west wing to the grand staircase taking deep, steadying breaths to keep from running out. Surprisingly, he hadn't thought much during the whole preparation process—the time that he thought he'd use to really let out his nervousness. Instead it was happening right before he was supposed to meet her.

It was sad, pathetic, and shameful.

The women were the ones who should feel this way. They should be the ones nervous and on the verge of passing out from fear at the simple prospect of meeting him for dinner. That was how it had always been, the status quo. Now _he_ was the one who was beginning to sweat under the fine fabrics and the fur. And there was absolutely no reason for it.

He wasn't wooing her. He wasn't about to propose to her. He wasn't facing any sort of potential rejection tonight. This type of rejection was not an immediate blow, it was the type that had always been there. From the very beginning. Instead of cutting down the tree, it turns out the seed had never been planted.

The purpose of tonight was simply a night of good conversation, good music, good food, and good friends. He would do all in his power to be a good friend to Rachel. Since that was all she wanted.

So he stood at the bottom of the staircase, waiting to escort her to the dinner that had reduced Rory to proud hysterics. He was a man. He was a _beast_, for goodness sake. He had to contain himself. He'd just gotten his irrational nerves settled when someone cleared her throat behind him.

He had half a mind to turn with his eyes closed.

A second later, he knew that if he had, he would've regretted it for the rest of his life.

Rachel grinned down at him from the top of the staircase, looking giddy and nervous to be wearing her dress, and he could understand why. It was the last thing he ever thought she'd wear, and he had no idea why because it was perfect.

Bronze, filmy material rested on her shoulders, holding up the jewel-encrusted bodice of the gown. The golden gems were scattered across her torso in star-shaped patterns and swirls of sparkling light. A band of golden silk curled around her waist and spiraled out into a voluminous skirt that shimmered in the torchlight. She was a bright flame then, but if she stepped out into the sunlight, she'd be nothing short of a star.

She continued smiling at him as she slowly made her way down the stairs, careful with her voluminous skirts. It was all he could do to keep his mouth from hanging open. He managed to pull himself together in time to step forward and help her down the last few steps.

"Good evening, my lady" he said, holding back a smile as he bowed. He really did not look good smiling. He saw himself in the mirror. It was a scary sight.

"Good evening, my lord," she greeted, curtsying.

"You look beautiful," he said, making an effort to sound more friendly and kind rather than love-struck and entranced. It was a failure.

She blushed and reached out to touch one of his buttons. "And _you_ look very dashing."

He snorted and offered her his arm. "I look _strange_. Shall we?"

She slipped gloved hand through his and let him lead her through the hall. The servants had lit the way to the dining room with soft, golden candles whose light danced across the floor and walls as they reflected off Rachel's dress.

"What's so significant about tonight?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"Then why the formal invitation? The clothes? The dinner? Don't get me wrong—Kurt and I loved the chance to dress up, but the occasion is just so random, don't you think? Are you trying to surprise me with something? Because my birthday was last month."

He stopped and turned to stare at her. "It was last month? Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because I… I didn't think it would be important to anyone here at the time," she answered slowly, wincing in anticipation of his reaction.

He glowered at her darkly. "You're important." He continued walking, tugging her out of her shock. "If you weren't, I would've made sure Kurt dressed you in a potato sack and wrapped the peelings around your feet for shoes."

She looked like she didn't know whether to be offended or amused, so she just settled for smiling and shaking her head. "I couldn't even qualify for sheets instead of a potato sack?"

His eye twitched. "There is no way I'm letting you walk around anywhere in a _sheet_, Rachel."

"I think it's better than a potato sack," she said. "There is a lot more I could do with sheets than potato sacks."

"How did we get to this topic?"

"I mean, for one thing, sheets are basically smaller portions of fabric that are used to make dresses and such. I could try to sew myself a better outfit, but I suppose that's why you made me wear a potato sack, isn't it? There's no choice but to wear the sack itself since I wouldn't be able to make it into anything else?" she rambled. "However, the potato peels don't make sense. For one thing, they wouldn't hold together long enough for me to even take a step, and even if I could walk around, you'd wind up with a giant mess all over the floor."

He led her into the dining room and pulled her seat out for her, but she just kept going even as she sat down and arranged her napkin on her lap.

"And peeling one long, consecutive line is actually a fairly hard thing to do especially considering the variety of unique lumps each potato has that could hinder the whole—"

"Actually, Rory can peel an entire potato in one go," he interrupted her as he sat down across the small table.

She paused, like she always did, shocked that he was actually paying attention to her rambling. She gave him that look every time he did it, and he had a feeling it'd be a while before she ever got used to having someone's attention.

Not that he was going to have that much time to see that anyway.

He'd gotten to the point where it wasn't so difficult to keep up with her, but as he sat there, he couldn't help but be distracted. The way she smelled, the way she looked, the way she smiled at him, the way she laughed, talked, blinked, _breathed_. He sounded like a lunatic, but he figured that came with the territory of falling in love with the most unattainable woman.

There was a thousand reasons why she wasn't going to fall in love with him—why she couldn't, shouldn't, would never. But for that night, he wasn't going to torture himself and list them all off to keep from getting too close. He was going to sit there and immerse himself everything about her, an overwhelming dose to tide him over.

She was beautiful.

She was talented.

She was brilliant.

She was perfect.

He loved watching her, the way she would look around or gesture at things, so when she made eye contact, it made the connection that much more significant. Her eyes were plain brown, a warm color that didn't attract too much attention. He realized how much better that was than if she had some rare, vibrant eye color. One would pay so much attention to the hue that what lay underneath would be distorted or forgotten. It was easier to see her happiness, her frustration, her sadness. She couldn't hide.

So when she grinned, her eyes crinkling, he easily saw what she wanted. She sprang from the table and hauled him out of his seat. This was probably one of the last things he wanted or was even _capable_ of doing, but for Rachel, he'd do it all night. She dragged him into the adjacent ballroom, whirling around in awe of the vaulted, painted ceiling, the gold filigree on the walls, the gleaming marble floor, the sparkling windows that made the stars twinkle even more, the golden crystal chandelier, and the gleaming black grand piano. He let her indulge her dramatic side as she twirled around, making her dress spin out. He walked over to the piano and patted it gently.

"A waltz, Bradley," he said quietly. "Let's see if I'm going to thoroughly disgrace the Kingdom Animalia with my dancing tonight."

The fallboard swung open, and the keys began to depress. A soft melody began to echo through the wide ballroom, and Rachel finally turned to face him again with a huge smile.

He stepped forward and offered her his hand. "May I have this dance?"

She slipped her hand in his and picked up her skirt with the other. "It would be my honor."

He set his hand on her waist, careful not to grip her and potentially rip or mar her dress, and tried to remember the steps. He spun her around in an awkward circle, making her burst out laughing. He hushed her, feeling his face heat up. The steps eventually came back, though he had to compensate for his hulking figure. They were soon spinning around the ballroom, her dress flying around her. Her scent , impossible to mask by Kurt's fancy soap and perfume, wafted around him, making his head spin long before they started dancing and even longer after. She was small and delicate and bright in his arms, and for the rest of his life, he would never forget the way she began to lead _him_ around the floor. He could effortlessly lift her with one arm, but there she was pulling him around the dance floor. She was grinning and laughing like she was having the time of her life.

When the song finally tapered off, they stopped in the middle of the ballroom. He bowed; she curtsied. She grinned; he rolled his eyes. She scowled at him; he smiled the best he could. She took his hand; he stopped breathing. She seemed to notice something was off, so she broke the silence.

"I didn't realize we've been dancing for so long," she said, motioning to the clock nearby. "Look at the time."

He swallowed when he checked it. He hadn't realized how long they'd spent eating and how long Bradley had extended the song so they could keep dancing. He glanced out the window, where the full moon was floating in the star-speckled sky. He'd had his time, and now it was up. It wasn't enough. He could spend eternity with her, and it still would not be enough.

_Enough,_ he told himself. _That's enough._

He held out his arm for her to take again and led her out through the French doors and to the courtyard of the garden. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, making sure to step first so he could push the snow out of her path to keep her dress from getting wet.

"Thank you for doing all this—or at least organizing it," she said, holding his jacket closed with one hand and clutching his arm with the other. "I feel like a princess."

"Well, _Princess_, the night's not over," he said, leading her to the bench. He brushed off the snow and helped her with her dress so she could sit and face the stars. That was always something he could fall back on: her love for stars.

"Oh, I wanted to ask you something," she said suddenly, making him pause. "The clock? The one in the north wing between two suits of armor with their swords crossed—it's so out of place from everything else."

He nodded and sat down beside her. "Yes, that… That's my mother's clock. Her father made it as a wedding present."

"It's beautiful."

His heart faltered for more beats than was healthy. "Wh—Really?"

"Of course," she replied. "It's simple and cleanly decorated. It puts a straightforward focus on its purpose rather than aesthetic appeal."

Of all the other things she could've…

If he didn't do it now, he would never have the courage to do it again. He braced himself and said, "I wanted to ask you something."

She gave him a funny look. "Okay. But why the preamble? Usually you just come out and ask."

He scowled at her and then turned forward again, staring down at his hands—_paws_. He'd gotten too used to human terms.

"Rachel, are you…_happy_ here?" he finally growled out since he couldn't bring himself to ask properly.

She frowned, confused. "Of course. I lived in villages—large and quaint—and I've always felt so alone. But here, it's the complete opposite." She actually seemed to sound a little offended that he asked.

"You have to know why I'm asking you this," he said earnestly,

"Well, I mean, _yes_, I did come here in unfavorable circumstances, but things changed," she insisted kindly, her hand on his arm. "I'm happy here."

He was beginning to feel warm—nervous, afraid, panicked? He didn't want to ask—oh, _no_, he definitely didn't want to ask—but it had to be done.

"What about your father?"

She froze, frowned, and looked like she was on the path to start crying any second.

He knew it.

When he'd planned on letting her go, he had to give her some incentive to leave. He knew she was content to live in his castle; that much was obvious. He couldn't simply kick her out without either killing himself or being killed by his servants. He needed to find her a way out, and that manifested into her father.

Her father was her one tether to the outside world. Regardless of how uncomfortable she was outside his castle, she would push through it all for her father. And the only reason she would leave his castle was for that man.

A part of him still couldn't understand what he was doing. She was spot-on when she was talking to Kurt. He was pushing her away with one hand and pulling her in with the other. He didn't want to let go, and he was still trying to.

But there was no going back from this. Not anymore.

She took a long time answering, getting progressively more upset with every thought that crossed her mind. "I… I've been gone for three months. I've never even… I never wrote to him or considered visi—I'm a horrible daughter."

"No, you're not," he said.

She may not have been a prisoner there anymore, but the ghost of the feeling still lingered. She unconsciously obeyed his original stipulation of no outside contact. She'd pushed her father from her mind from the beginning because of her sentence. There was nothing she could've done for him. Now that she realized her connection with her father hadn't been entirely severed, she was guilty she'd never done anything.

"I—I don't know if he's all right," she whispered, the corners of her mouth turning down.

"Come with me," he said, standing up and offering her his arm once more. "I have something to show you."

She was too dazed in her guilt to comment, but when they stopped at his balcony, she was doubly shocked—one because she must not have realized she was walking and two because she was back in the west wing, in his room. Her eyes briefly went to the withering rose.

"Here," he said, handing her the mirror. "It's enchanted to show you anything you ask to see."

Rachel glanced up at him in trepidation before cautiously taking the mirror. He moved to the other side of the table and rested his hand on the glass cover of the rose again. She licked her lips nervously. She held up the mirror, and then stated quietly, "Show me my father."

The silver frame glowed purple, and her eyes widened as the reflective surface shimmered. He couldn't see exactly what she was seeing because he'd turned away, but her silence told him enough.

Her choked sob made him grit his teeth until his entire head ached. He faced her again just as she put the mirror back, tears streaming down her face as she looked around, lost.

"H-He's sick," she gasped through her tears. "He's—He's been trying to look for me. There a-a-are maps on every surface of the house w-w-with red markings; he's been trying to _look_ for me. But…he can't remember where the c-castle is anymore. And he's…he's _sick_."

Shock made him stare. He hadn't anticipated that. He thought the man would be fine—he seemed intelligent albeit lacking in navigational skills and propriety. But him being ill… He wanted to supply Rachel with a reason to leave, not this heartache. He kept his hands light on the glass and on the table, careful that gripping something to relieve the tension in his chest would mean something shattering or splintering.

"He's… He looks like he's dying on his feet, but he's still marking m-m-m-maps and… I have to go," she finally blurted out, looking up at him.

It still made his world swim dangerously. He knew the words were coming, but he still wasn't prepared for it. Wasn't prepared to let her go.

And yet he still nodded urgently. "You should go and pack. I'll have the coach ready in an hour. Your horse can run alongside it. That's the safest and quickest way to get you back to town."

She was trying to hold back her sobs, but he could see her control wouldn't last long. "But—you—"

"I'll be fine," he said, more calmly than he thought he could. "As for your father… He's the priority. You need to go."

She swallowed and tried to breathe evenly, fiddling with her gloves and her skirt. Every movement made his chest ache and burn even more, but he made his way around the table to take her hands. He used a knuckle to tilt her face up to his so he could have one last chance to memorize all of her. He pushed out the words, forcing his mouth to form them even though _everything_ _he was_ said something entirely different.

"Go…"

_ Please…_

"…I've kept you here long enough…"

_ …don't leave…_

"…so hurry and…"

_ …stay here with me…_

"…be safe."

_ …because I love you._

* * *

He wrote her a letter the way he had to write all his other letters to ensure there was still enough money in his accounts. He dipped his claw in ink and gently scratched out the words on a parchment. Because she needed to know.

Her father's illness was unforeseen. He'd intended on telling her the truth, but there was no longer any time. He wrote as quickly as he could, sealed the envelope, tied it to the enchanted mirror, and charged Jacob the ottoman to give her the package before she left. He couldn't face her again. He couldn't say goodbye without saying something else, and she deserved more than hasty proclamations.

So he gave her a letter and a mirror instead.

* * *

_ Forgive me._

_ Forgive me for keeping you here. Forgive me for demanding an expensive punishment for something that didn't even count as a crime. Forgive me for calling you a friend but never telling you the truth of who I am. Forgive me for not saying all this face-to-face. Forgive me for being a spineless, selfish coward._

_ Almost five years to the day, an old beggar woman came to the castle, seeking refuge from the cold. She offered only a rose in return. I was even more of a cruel man back then, so I looked at her ragged appearance and her ugly mien and dismissed her. She warned me not to be deceived by appearances, but I turned her away. She shed her cloak and revealed herself to be the enchantress Susanna. She spelled the castle and its inhabitants and transformed me into the beast you know._

_ The rose she offered me is the same one you nearly touched that day. It was enchanted to bloom until my twenty-first birthday. If I could discover love in all its glory before the last petal fell, the curse would be broken. If not, my servants and I were to remain this way forever._

_ You may think this is why I kept you in my castle, and that was the case at first. But then you came into the west wing and then you ran and changed everything. I didn't keep you here; you stayed of your own accord. Thousands of times, I have given you perfect opportunities to leave, but you never left. I let you out into the garden so you could try and make your escape, but you only sat there and read 'til you were sunburned. I gave you free reign of the stables, but you merely cleaned and reorganized it instead of taking your horse and leaving._

_ Please, please don't think that I wanted you gone—that I'd simply indulged you and let you stay. I would give everything in the world to have you stay, but I'm not good for you. You don't deserve someone who's been nothing but a monster his entire life. Figuratively before, literally now. But I need you to know, Rachel. You changed me. You changed my servants, my castle. You changed my life, and I love you. You can take that in whichever way you want, but that's the truth. You may not have broken the curse, but you broke me in the best possible way._

_ I will never forget you—your voice, your laugh, your kindness, your eyes._

_ Keep this mirror. It's not symbolic or whatever sentimental nonsense you love jabbering about. It's a helpful tool, but I can't keep it any longer. Use it well. _

_ Stay safe._

* * *

He was tired. Every bone in his body ached and no amount of resting or laying down would let him recover.

He was tense. Every muscle in his body thrummed with coiled energy just straining to be released.

This was his life. There had to be two starkly opposing sides that had to find a tenuous balance before his world crashed and burned. Before the curse, he'd balanced his cold disregard for everyone else with his unfailing devotion to his mother and sister. After he was cursed, he balanced his violent rage with the purposeful separation from his staff. And now, he balanced his justification of throwing away his salvation with his love for her.

One day, opposing sides would pull too hard, and he would break. But until then, he was going to stand and watch his timer count down until there was nothing left. The rose was down to its last two petals, and to be honest, he had no feelings about it.

Rachel's departure caused a huge shift in the air of the castle. What was once warm was left even colder than before. The servants had been hopeful for the last five years. They had tried to make the transformed castle as homely and welcoming as they could. Now they'd simply given up.

He'd heard Kurt nearly tear some doors off their hinges as he rampaged through the house, demanding to know what their lunatic master of the house had done to drive Rachel away.

"Where is she _going_?!" Mercédeshad shrieked. "Why did he let her leave?!"

"I thought he loved her!" Samuel had added in a plaintive wail.

Surprisingly, it was the horse mistress, Tyna the pitchfork, who sadly answered for him: "That's why he let her go."

After that, the servants had seemingly dropped their rage and fallen into indifference. Last he heard, Michel, Samuel, Mercédes, and the rest were attempting to muddle through by imbibing ludicrous amounts of alcohol. From the sound of things, it wasn't working. He, on the other hand, didn't even _try_ to do anything.

He just sat by the small table with the rose and waited.

Initially, he _had_ done something: he tore apart his room again as soon as she, the horse, and the stagecoach rode off. Everything was in shambles; there was nothing left to break. _He_ was in shambles; there was nothing left of _him_ to break. It was fortunate then, that he decided to give her the mirror. He would never have used it to look for her; he knew better than to subject himself to that kind of torture. No, he would've shattered it, and that would have been a very valuable piece of magic gone to waste. It was better in her hands. She would know what to do with it.

However, it was a strange feeling, giving up.

He spent so many years being angry and bitter. Now that she wiped that away and he pushed her away, he wasn't left with very much at all. So he just…sat there, teetering between just laying down to die and running amok through the forest. Torn between opposing states—if that was love, it was a curse in and of itself.

This was why he never wanted to marry. It wasn't because there was never the right woman. It was because he simply was the wrong man. Cursed from the very beginning 'til the very end.

He was tired. He was so very _tired_ of being angry.

So when he leaned over the railing to see the mob of men attempting to storm the castle, he simply sagged and returned to his position beside the rose. Blaine marched in with a request for orders, and he just sighed.

He didn't ask where they came from or why they were there. It wasn't as if that information would put some shield around the castle. He would admit to being slightly worried about how many weapons were left that were not also serving as his employees, but then he made the decision that there should be no fight anyway.

"Let them come," was all he said.

"Sir?" Blaine asked incredulously.

"They've come for me, I'm fairly sure of that," he answered flatly. "They heard about the monster living in the castle and decided to saddle themselves with the heroic burden of saving their families from the menace."

"So we'll set up a—"

"No, Blaine," he said stonily. "You'll let them come. Have everyone surrender…or, you know, just sit there and not move. Let them come to me."

"And you'll fight them?"

He turned to face his Captain of the Guard. "Of course."

Totally unconvinced, the suit of armor bowed and exited, shutting the door behind him with a soft _click_. The master of the house turned back to face the cloudy night sky and continue his meaningless existence for however long it would take for one of the invading cretins to kill him.

His employees, on the other hand, were much less inclined to avoid a fight. Once the mob flooded into the castle, there was a moment's pause before pandemonium broke out. He could hear their dramatic battle cries as they most likely tore apart the intruders.

He wasn't worried about his servants. He was mostly worried about their consciences once they woke up in the morning with the guilt of utterly destroying their enemies. He hadn't handpicked them at age sixteen _only_ for their household skills after all.

He was trained in the way of the sword, the bow and arrow, the mace, and even the scimitar ever since he was young. But all those skills were pushed aside even as the first arrow skewered his shoulder. He'd heard the footsteps and felt the gust of air as the door opened. And yet he still refused to brace himself for the pain.

He choked out a soft cry and looked down at the arrow point protruding from his chest. He slowly turned to face the burly giant of a man standing at his door. The plain bow was a toy in the behemoth's grip. Hazel eyes met light brown even in the darkness, and for a second, neither of them moved. Fear was etched all over the other man's face, but there was a steely glint in those eyes. A stubborn, immovable stare that told the master of the house enough. One was man; one was beast. The "laws of nature" were obvious.

So he turned his back on the intruder.

"What's your name?" he called quietly.

The man paused, his scent thick with fear and sweat. He seemed surprised. For someone who wasn't supposed to be human, the monster in front of him apparently had more manners than the human. "F-Finn."

For a moment, his apathy was forgotten and his pride stung. He couldn't have been killed by someone with a more imposing name? Something more intimidating? Like…_Hercules _or _Perseus_?

He sighed. So be it.

"Who are you, _Finn_?" he asked, studying the arrows.

Finn hesitated. "I… I'm Rachel's fiancé."

Lies, of course. Even without spending any time with humans in the past five years—except for Rachel—he still knew when they were lying. Especially this one. He snorted softly.

And then another arrow slammed into his chest, inches from the first.

The burn of both anger and pain seared through his chest as he growled in pain and flexed his claws. He glared down at the two arrows and pulled them both out in the same breath. A growl ripped through his teeth as he threw both of them aside.

"You corrupted her," Finn spat angrily, finding the courage to finally speak for himself without a question. "You…you _poisoned_ her mind, didn't you? Rachel? You made her think that…that you're _human_."

He heard the clatter of the bow being tossed to the floor and ring of steel as Finn drew his sword.

"Sh-She came back to the village—after going _missing_ for over _three_ _months_—saying that she lived with a beast all this time," Finn raged softly, finding some strength in his own false courage. It was impressive, really. "She said you were _tame_, that you were _kind_. What did you do, _beast_? What potion did you give her? What spell did you put her under?"

Finn moved behind him, his footsteps slightly muffled by the rug. "You think you can just…_abduct_ women, take them away from their families since you've been deprived of your own humanity? You're _wrong_. You're a-a-a _monster_, and you don't deserve her pity or her kindness."

He continued to sit there, breathing slowly as blood trickled down his chest, matting his fur.

Finn was now at his left, breathing nervously. "I don't know how you managed to take over this castle with y-your _psychotic_ furniture, but this…this is going to end." The sword point rested against the side of his neck, the cold metal brushing softly against his fur.

"So prepare yourself, beast," Finn said quietly, reverently. "Tonight is your last."

"FINN, NO!"

And something in him blazed to life—kindling and kerosene thrown into a smoldering fireplace so quickly that it took his breath away. With barely a thought, he smacked the sword out of Finn's hand, and it clattered onto the floor a few feet away.

"Rachel, get back!" Finn cried, making a mad dive for the sword as the alleged monster staggered to his feet.

He saw her through the open doors standing at the other end of the hallway where she was holding onto the wall for support, breathing heavily. She must've sprinted through the castle to get to them.

"No—Finn, stop!" she shrieked at the same time thunder cracked the sky.

"Rachel, you're sick! You don't understand!" Finn shrieked right back, sword back in hand.

"I'm not sick, you idio—_FINN_!"

He had anticipated a slice or a swipe—any sort of sword attack to be aimed at his person. What he didn't anticipate was Finn leaping through the air and ramming his shoulder into his stomach. He was a beast, yes, but the man was also a behemoth. They crashed through the glass balcony doors amidst Rachel's shrieks and the rumble of thunder.

He slammed onto the balcony floor and rolled away in time to dodge Finn's sword. The metal clanged against the marble floor and then scraped across it as Finn sliced it upward, teeth bared in a mock snarl. He had no formal training, and what skills he had with a sword were limited to the lucky shots that decapitated his dinners. He threw too much of his weight around with his sword so he was essentially the one pushing and pulling himself around the wide balcony.

_"Oh, please be careful," _ he heard her whisper to him from inside, anxiously wanting to help but knowing she would only be chastised for putting herself in danger.

"Fight me!" Finn yelled angrily, taking another lumbering swipe. "Stop dancing around!"

That particular slice sailed too close to his left ear, and when he slipped out of the way, it nearly knocked the rose from the table. He needed to bring this idiot further from this room—from the rose and from Rachel in general.

Thunder roiled above and finally let loose the torrential downpour. Shielded by a curtain of rain, he spared one last glance at Rachel before he leaped, clawing his way up the outer stone wall to find footing on the shingled roof.

Finn screamed in frustration. "Coward!" Still brandishing his sword, he used the railing as a step to bring himself up onto the roof too. He swept the broadsword left and right to keep the beast away as he clambered up and steadied his footing. "You can run all over this roof, but you're going to have to face me."

Finally away from any potential risk of collateral damage, the master of the house pounced quickly. He grabbed Finn by the throat, pinned him to a steeper sloped section of the roof, and squeezed the man's wrist until he released the sword. It tumbled down the roof to the abyss below, and Finn roared in anger.

Finn threw a feeble punch that barely even hurt his jaw, and he slammed Finn against the roof again in retaliation. He released Finn's wrist to tighten his hold on the man's throat. Choking and nearly turning purple, Finn resorted to the tried-and-true method he'd grown up with. He reached out and pulled on the beast's fur as hard as he could. He wrenched out a handful, and completely distracted by the utterly bizarre move, his adversary was too stunned to see the knife Finn pulled out from his boot before it rammed into his side, hilt-deep, and then tore a few inches down.

Roaring in pain, the beast released Finn, who took the knife with him when he was suddenly backhanded into another sloped roof. He staggered against the shingles and pressed his paw against his side. He winced when it came back more wet with blood than rain. He turned back to see Finn stumbling toward him, hair plastered to his face and knife between clenched fingers.

"Glad to see you're not completely impervious," Finn said with a triumphant smile, a small trickle of blood leaking out from the corner of his mouth. "Let's see how many of these it takes to bring you down."

Enough of this. Anger numbed his pain and made his eyes zero in on his adversary.

He roared in Finn's face, seizing the man by the throat again. He faintly registered another stab—this time to the shoulder—before he heaved Finn up off the roof and held him out over the edge.

"It's a long drop from here to the ground, _Finn_," he said, letting his claws dig into the fragile skin of the man's neck. "If you want to meet the ground slowly, I suggest you surrender right now. If not, you can take the quick way down."

"Go ahead," Finn rasped. "Drop me. Be the monster you _are_."

Rage like white fire licked at every part of him, but all he could think of was Rachel smiling up at him and saying four words that would always echo in his mind. "_You're not a monster."_

He squeezed just a little tighter before throwing Finn back against the roof so hard the shingles cracked. "I'm not the one who's trying to kill _anyone_. Get out of my castle." He watched Finn wheeze for a few seconds before turning his back on him and carefully making his way back down the roof toward the balcony.

"WATCH OUT!"

He'd heard the footsteps, felt the hot breaths, but honestly, a part of him wished that Finn would rethink his actions as soon as they both heard Rachel's voice, but once again, he was wrong. The knife sliced through his back, and he twisted around violently. The sudden movement threw Finn back, and he slipped on the shingles and tumbled toward the edge.

Shock registered on both their faces as he lunged forward to grab Finn before he fell, but the smaller man was too far away. Fire and ice burned through his side, his shoulder, his chest, and his back as he helplessly watched Finn fall to his death.

And just like that the rage simmered and died, replaced with cold. The pain was cold, his mind was cold, _he _was cold.

Black spots danced in front of his eyes, and he pushed himself forward toward the balcony. He managed to keep from slipping, but as soon as he was right above his room, he let go too soon. He slipped and slammed onto the balcony floor. He didn't even have enough energy to cry out in pain.

Her scream burst the bubble of haziness around him, and he blinked slowly, watching her blurry silhouette sharpen beside him.

"You're going to be fine," she said, her lip trembling as she wrenched off her cloak and used it to staunch the bleeding in his side. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine. You're going—MICHEL! SAMUEL! PLEASE! SOMEONE, HELP!"

He continued to watch her as she fussed over him uselessly. She was gorgeous. She was soaking wet, dress streaked with mud, and eyes puffy from crying—and she was beautiful. She looked like a drowned rabbit, and yet she was still _painfully_ beautiful.

So he said so.

She shot him a disbelieving glare that didn't quite have its normal punch. "Stop talking."

"Don't…tell me what to do," he croaked, the cold paralyzing his body so he could barely move.

"You're wasting your energy. You need to…" She shifted her cloak so she could wad the other end and press it against the arrow wounds in chest. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine."

"No, I'm not," he said flatly.

The sound of clinking on the floor alerted him to the arrival of his servants, but he didn't even have to look to know they weren't going to come any closer. They couldn't, really. They'd been with him through it all—ripped him to shreds over his mistakes because they both cared about him and knew that he couldn't live without them. They took care of him during his darker periods where he would disappear and return to the castle bloody and bitten from battles with various vicious creatures of the forest. They encouraged him, understood him, _loved_ him.

At that point, he wished Rachel hadn't called them over because he didn't want them to see him like this. They were his family. And family…didn't need to see one of their own die especially when they couldn't do anything to help. It was cruel.

His focus shifted back to Rachel, and even from the blank expression she was trying to maintain, he knew how much this was hurting her too. There was too much blood; he knew that much without even having to look.

"Rach-Rachel—_Rachel_," he muttered. "Stop it."

And then her expression crumbled. "No, _you_ stop it. Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because there's more…blood outside my body…than inside it," he answered slowly, tiredly. "Just...stay here…with me, please?"

She nodded, easing herself closer so his head rested on her lap.

Rain pelted his face, but he resolutely kept his eyes trained on her face. He memorized every wrinkle and twitch on her face; every groove, dip, and dimple were carved into his memory. Her fingers smoothed his ruffled fur back from his eyes so she could see them.

"I read your _stupid_ letter," she choked out through her tears, her lip trembling even more than before.

Black blurred along the edges of his vision as he struggled to speak. "Why…was it stupid?"

She stifled her sobs before: "Because you tell me you love me, but you don't even tell me your name."

He somehow found it in him to smile and chuckle. "Noah," he answered softly, peering into those big, warm brown eyes. "My name's Noah."

And then she choked out a sob before cradling his face in his arms and pressed her cheek against the top of his head. Her hair fell around him, and he closed his eyes, inhaling her scent slowly. He filled his lungs with her smell, focusing only on the feeling of her arms around him, the sound of his name on her lips. She was so _warm._

"'M glad you came back," he murmured.

"I'm here now, so you have to stay too," she argued thickly.

He snorted half-heartedly, but _breathing_ was too tiring; he couldn't respond.

This certainly was not how he thought the night would go, how he thought _anything_ would go, honestly. He thought he would spend the rest of his pitiful life wasting away next to the table even long after the rose would wither and turn to dust. He never thought he'd see her again, never thought he'd actually die before being cursed forever, never thought he'd actually _die_ at all.

So as he lay there, counting his few-and-far-between breaths, he marveled at how ludicrously wrong he always wound up being when it involved Rachel.

She came back. She _actually_ came back.

And that thought warmed Prince Noah, master of the Castle Titan, as he breathed his last.

* * *

She wasn't like him. She wasn't acutely aware of things the way he was, but as soon as he stopped moving, it was like everything in her stopped moving too.

"No," she wept. "No, no, no, no, _please_."

Her chest ached as she looked up and saw Michel, Samuel, Mercédes, Tyna, Guillaume, Joseph, Marley, Kurt, Blaine, and even Jacob the recalcitrant ottoman assembled beneath or beside the rose's table. She couldn't tell if they could cry in their forms, but the rain did the job well enough for them—dripping down their desolate expressions.

She turned back to him, to _Noah_, and fisted her hands in his fur, shaking him gently. "Please, wake up," she begged quietly. She could feel her screams building up in her chest, but she couldn't—she couldn't do that. She hadn't the right. "Please stay with me. Please, Noah, please. Come back. _Come back._"

She bent again, hunching her shoulders as if to shield him from the rest of the world, tears dripping onto his face.

"I tried to tell them," she sobbed. "I tried to tell Finn, Jesse, David—I tried to tell them that you were good. They just wouldn't listen. I wanted… They didn't understand and now… Please, come back."

But there was no sound except the rain.

"Noah, _stay_," she whispered. "Stay with me the way I didn't stay with you…"

She trailed off pathetically because the words were right there; they'd always been right there. Ever since she saw his face in that torn portrait, he ceased to be a beast to her. He was simply a man who needed to be chipped away at before seeing the person underneath. And when she went at him with her chisel, she saw _him_. She saw…_Noah._ She saw the son who could stare at his mother's plain old clock for hours on end. She saw the master who took care of his employees regardless of how much he scared them into never coming near him. She saw the friend who let Kurt, Michel, Samuel, and Mercédes rant and rave about anything under the sun and do his best to help. She saw the boy with the sense of humor that had his eyes gleaming with mischief no animal could ever have. She saw the man whose walls wore down every time she turned and met his eyes, every time she grinned at him, every time she didn't hesitate to grab him or even pat him.

Then she dug down deep and wept even harder.

_ "…because I love you."_

And so she cried—heart-wrenching sobs that grated through her throat and made her chest feel as if though it was caving in. Every part of her _hurt_ because every part of her knew exactly what she had lost. She spent her childhood dreaming of adventure, of magic spells, daring swordfights, and a prince in disguise. And it was just her luck that she had no idea what she had until she lost it.

The keening noise in her ears—the noise _she_ was making—drowned out the soft chimes that had the servants of the castle staring in shock. Balls of light shot down from the sky, gently breaking onto the ground and splitting into thousands of little orbs of light that bounced and skittered across the balcony floor. The orbs that hit the ground faded harmlessly, but the ones that touched Noah began to seep into his fur, his tattered shirt, his pants.

"Rachel!" Kurt cried out worriedly.

She bolted upright and scuttled backward. She gaped at the sight. The more orbs touched and soaked into him, the more he began to glow. Slowly the cascade of light falling onto him began to transform him as he lay there. His large barrel chest shrank, the fur receded, the hind legs lengthened and reformed, the paws shriveled into long, strong fingers, and—

He gasped.

* * *

He gasped, coughed, and _wheezed_. The sound was strange, though. It was light, clean—nothing like his old animal-like hacks. And then it registered.

The last thing he remembered was Rachel before the black overtook him, and now there he was again—cold, wet, a little sore, and very much alive.

He groaned as he turned over, propping himself up onto his elbows, then his knees, and finally his hands—_hands_. _Hands!_ Oh, how he missed having hands—mini-limbs that could pick up forks and spoons and cups and pens. He coughed again, finally dislodging the disgusting mixture of blood and phlegm in the back of his throat—oh, the joys of being human.

He grinned as he felt the slick, wet floor of the balcony, the ache as his knees started to protest being pressed against the too-hard surface for too long, the cold of the wind and rain, the feel of _expressions on his face._

And then he felt the small, warm hand on his shoulder that took his breath away. He looked up, and there she was.

_There._ There they were: big, brown eyes that could pin him to the floor or send him careening through the heavens. She was still wet. Still looking like a drowned rabbit. But more beautiful than ever.

"Noah?" she asked hesitantly, her hand still light on shoulder as she moved closer. Her expression threatened a smile. "You're—okay? You're human—you're _alive_?"

He grinned at her as she studied him, probably recalling his image on that portrait. He steadied himself on his knees to reach out and cup her face in his hands.

Soft—so _soft_. She was warm and soft and solid and _real_ in his hands. She wasn't as small as she was before—no, that was just a matter of perspective. She wasn't as focused either. The details he could vaguely remember seeing in things had blurred back to normal human levels, but there she was. Rachel—_his_ Rachel.

"Say that again," he breathed, tugging her closer and stroking her cheeks with his thumbs.

She chuckled lightly, tears falling down her cheeks anew. "You're _alive_."

He snorted and shook his head, brushing wet strands of hair away from her face. "No," he said, his voice gaining some strength. "Say my name."

She laughed, and his heart—an organ he'd only been slightly aware of—began to thunder like war drums. She moved to grip his arms, fisting his shirt in her fingers before snaking up to his head—closely cropped—and then his face—slightly rough with stubble. Just like he had been when he was cursed.

"_Noah_," she said quietly before getting louder. "Noah. Noah. Noah, Noah, Noah, Noah, No—"

And then he kissed her.

His first experience with magic had been Susanna slapping the curse on him. The painful transformation, the spine-tingling shivers, the blazing heat. His second experience with magic was soft, the way his mama used to wake him up when he was little. Soft, warm caresses, and comfort. His third experience with magic could be equated to a combination of drowning and being consumed in fire. It was _all Rachel_. The taste of her lips—sweet and warm with honey, comforting and soothing like tea, crisp like the rain.

It was overwhelming.

Being human was overwhelming enough, and his first few attempts to reacquaint himself with his own senses were with this woman? He wasn't surprised to find himself lightheaded.

They finally broke apart long enough for him to wrap his arms around her and haul the both of them up to their feet. Well, he was on his feet, she dangled in his arms, giggling as she peppered his face with kisses.

It was then that he saw his servants—dancing in the rain, back to their human forms and still being sprinkled with little orbs. He set Rachel back on her feet, kissed her briefly, gripped her hand, and sprinted over to tackle his ser—_his friends_.

There was Kurt, cursing at him in a bizarre mixture of German and French, ranting about how _he_ was supposed to be the dramatic one. Then there was Samuel and Michel who laughingly explained that Rachel's declaration of love had come not two seconds before the very last petal of the rose fell. Mercédes slapped and punched him before grabbing his cheeks and hugging him tightly. Kurt pretended to strangle him, Blaine grabbed him by the ear and shook his head. It was madness.

The orbs that hit the floor began to take effect, letting out pulsating waves of light that swept through the castle, transforming it from dark gray stone and gargoyles to the sandstone and crimson roofs and the majestic bird statues. Noah suddenly stiffened, and Rachel was about to worried ask what was wrong when he sprinted off, dragging her after him with the rest of the servants on their heels.

They ran through the hallways, passing by human servants who found themselves strangely holding their old _bodies_ or, in the case of Blaine and Rory, inside them. They finally skidded to a halt in front of the top of the grand staircase where Noah lunged forward just as the statue of his mother softened, and she and tripped into his arms. And then he was _truly_ home.

"Oh, baby," she whispered, running her hands over his face and crying through her laughs. "You did it. You finally—and, oh, heaven help us, she's perfect! Not like those flighty, airy, perfumed pincushions you always seemed to be chasin—"

_"Mama!"_ Noah cut her off with a glare.

"It's true!" she cried, reaching up to cup his face. "You were meant for so much more than that kind of woman, Noah. I _told_ you." She threw her hands up in the air when they both turned to look at Rachel, who seemed to have found a new hip accessory in the form of Noah's little sister, Rebekah. "Look at her—she's _perfect_."

"Too perfect," Rebekah interrupted. "I think he brainwashed her, Mama."

Noah grinned and loped over to grab Rebekah and haul her up into his arms. "Don't make me squeeze your head off."

"Noah! Grow up!"

"Why don't _you_? You've been nine years-old for the last five years," he teased, her tossing her back onto the ground and slipping his fingers through Rachel's. "Got a lot of birthdays and Christmases to catch up on, don't you think?"

Both mother and sister turned to Rachel and the servants who were greeting them.

"He hasn't been clubbed over the head to cause a massive personality shift, has he?" Rebekah asked skeptically.

"No," Michel answered with a smirk.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest proudly. "Rachel happened."

* * *

The honorable title of masterminds behind Noah and his family's reintroduction to society fell to Rachel and Michel. They fabricated the family's "illness" to be so harsh that it necessitated a strict quarantine and more than enough time to purge the sickness from their bodies and then the castle. Rachel was introduced as Noah's intended, a woman from the village who helped find a cure and subsequently nursed the ailing prince back to health. He won her heart and her hand, and they were to be married—_of course_.

The matter of the village mob who stormed the castle was simply explained. The cure had negative side effects on the people who weren't actually stricken with that particularly virulent illness. The cure had to be inhaled, so it was distributed throughout the castle. When the men burst in, they inhaled the cure and fell to fits of hallucinations—hence the reason why they screamed about attacking furniture. Their injuries were easily explained by the disorientation and lack of limb control that also accompanied the hallucinations.

Finn, unfortunately, made it all the way to a tall tower where he believed himself capable of flight and attempted to soar into the sun and its glory. He tragically fell to his death and was mourned by his admirers back in the village.

After explaining every single minute detail and promised all-hours access to Noah's expansive library, Rachel's father readily moved into the castle and gave his blessing to his daughter and future son-in-law. He happily fell into the occupation of Rebekah's zealous tutor, much to the young girl's utter disbelief and hesitance. However, they were soon found in the library, sitting _on top_ of the bookshelves as Hiram emphatically explained the intricate setup of the heavens and how the stars could relate to every Shakespeare play written.

As for Noah and Rachel, well, they were the perfect couple in all senses of the term. He apologized, of course, for his stupidity concerning the letter and his head-shaking reasoning behind pushing her out, and she forgave him with a roll of her eyes and a strong warning that he needed to stop being as melodramatic as her. Their fights continued to be as legendary as they were before—only now without Noah's roars of frustration. But now the servants' fears of screaming matches were coupled with a healthy trepidation every time the castle was silent. Many, many, _many times _have each and every employee of the castle walked in on Noah and Rachel in some compromising position. Nothing too scandalous, of course. They were still only engaged, after all, but still eyebrow-raising enough to have them scurrying out the room.

It wasn't always so violent and passionate, though. Every single person in the house would stand on the gallows and swear on their life that those two were soul mates. Every glare, every smile, every twitch of the eyebrow, smirk, and even snort were evidence of how much they were in love with each other. Every time they brushed past one another, there was magic. It was palpable, thrumming through the walls of the castle.

They gravitated toward each other.

In the most violent storms or in the most tranquil of calms, they drifted together. It was involuntary, unspoken—it was _natural_. It was natural because no matter what forms they took or what backgrounds they had, they understood each other. It wasn't some spectacular magic that transformed castles and turned people into inanimate objects. It was a deeper magic, one that touches many people but _embodies_ very few. It was true love, forged from the very creation of the earth and passed down from parent to child, from brother to brother, from one person to another. And on their wedding day, every single person there knew that theirs was the love to praise—not some union based on mutual necessity or benefit. For generations following, people would tell their children of an unselfish love that surpassed appearances, pride and prejudices, and a powerful enchantress's curse to bind together two very unlikely and unprepared people. For the story of Noah and Rachel was a tale as old as time.

* * *

**The End**


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